Picking Blackberries

At Poetic Bloomings, we are to write about being a child again in the summer…or – roses!

Picking Blackberries
I hated picking wild blackberries as a child –
The tangled canes all of them lethally armed
with sword sharp thorns –
The merciless sun beating down,
the bees and mosquitos buzzing and
the evil skeeters zooming in for nibbles,
the sly snake and then of course –
the ticks…oh.my.gosh. the ticks.
the small wild berries taking forever to fill up buckets
But…
That sweet winey taste on the tongue,
Biting into purple black morsels –
The juice flowing down the tongue
Staining lips and fingers and then back
at Grandma Hayes’ (who didn’t like me)
to sort through and wash and she would
make this crazy rich biscuit dough, roll it out
scatter the berries over, dot with fresh butter
and sprinkle sugar with a liberal hand.
roll it up tight, cut into slices, place close together
in the baking pan…dot with more butter and add more sugar
yhen some water in the pan.
Into that cruelly hot woodstove oven to bake.
When they came out, they were a miracle.
and the other berries, canning or
making preserves from them….
Oh.my.gosh.
Yesterday I picked blackberries.
Put the buckets into my red hauling wagon
and came home.
Blackberry roll for dessert.
Berries bubbling with sugar getting ready
to be put into preserve jars.
And I still hate picking blackberries.

5 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Victoria C. Slotto
    Jul 12, 2016 @ 15:47:45

    Fun memories even though peppered with thorns. Can imagine your grandmother not like you! What’s not to like?!

    Reply

    • kanzensakura
      Jul 12, 2016 @ 15:59:15

      I was my mother’s daughter who was not one of the locals, we were old family with a large house, we were intellectuals…she sent Christmas cards for years to Celia Newton and daughter and one to my father addressed to him. I would rather read than play, I was not the child of her pet son Sidney, I didn’t gush over boys…more reasons are not written. My Grandmother Newton adored me. And she made it obvious she didn’t like me. I hated visiting her. All the cousins went up for two weeks during the summer. And at 9, my fried chicken was better than hers. She was a twisted woman who manipulated her 8 kids. My father was happy to escape.

      Reply

  2. Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
    Jul 12, 2016 @ 16:19:21

    Oh the best berries are always the worst to pick… I remember the mosquitos picking cloudberries.. Walking through marshes – but the jam is heaven.

    Reply

  3. Elusive Trope
    Jul 14, 2016 @ 21:10:01

    perfectly composed in tone, rhythm, and imagery.

    and i, too, hate picking them

    Reply

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